


And These Moments Were Our Destinies

by finangler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Five Ways, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finangler/pseuds/finangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ways Sherlock and John might have met (but didn't).  And one way they did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And These Moments Were Our Destinies

1)

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Wha-, I'm sorry?" John couldn't be entirely sure that he had heard correctly, and momentarily feared that he was now superimposing his own thoughts over realtime conversations.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John could hear repeated pointedly over to his left. The rumbling baritone was far too apt for the dimly lit room, with its soothingly blue painted walls and flickering candles. The effect was soporific, despite the painfully awkward embarrassment John felt whenever a judicious thumb hit just the right nerve center or brushed just the right muscle group. John had been against this idea from the start, when Harry had bought him the gift certificate three months ago.

"It's just the thing you need, Johnny," she had chided over the phone. John's new, _borrowed_ phone, which he didn't dare shove back to her, as it was the only thing of value he even had anymore. "Clara and I used to get them all the time! Really, a nice soothing massage will help everything, particularly your...shoulder." She hadn't dared to bring up the leg, since mentioning that your brother was mental would only prompt him to bring up your alcoholism. As siblings do. John had mumbled something about physical therapy, and doctor's appointments and, oh yeah, getting naked and fondled by a complete stranger in a place that smelled like sage just isn't what blokes _do_. Harry had treated that last with all the scorn a liberated homosexual could, and bought the gift certificate anyway.

And then, proceeded to constantly ask whether or not John had redeemed it yet.

It had cost Harry quite a few quid. More than that, John knew that it was meant to be a conciliatory gesture, so he finally decided to redeem it. Pulling on his natty jumper and hobbling down his building's staircase, he caught the tube over to the West End. It had been difficult to locate the posh spa; apparently when you were that upscale, you didn't _need_ to advertise. An immaculately dressed receptionist glanced him over resignedly and informed him that Veronique, the masseuse recommended to John by Harry, was not taking customers today, but she would see who could work him in, if he would wait. Preferably out of view.

Eventually, the black-clad receptionist gestured to him vaguely and told him that one of their assistant masseurs had had a cancellation, and led him back to one of the rooms. The walls were a soothing blue, and the whole room smelled of…something floral. A hidden stereo emitted soothing wave noises and nondescript melodies.

It was the most uncomfortable John had ever been in his life.

A knock on the door presaged his masseuse’s arrival and John felt his discomfort grow tenfold when he realized that his masseuse actually ended up being of the male persuasion.

“Hello, John. My name is Sherlock. Clothes off, please.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your clothes. They need to be off. And you need to be face-down,” Sherlock explained again in a tone that was probably meant to be deferential and calming, but really, was more than a little condescending. Like everything else in this place. And, like everyone else in this place, Sherlock was forced to wear smartly tailored black slacks and shirt which….did more for John than any man asking him to strip and lie face-down really should. The man was preternaturally beautiful, all sharp angles and pleasing color contrast. He had a paleness that seemed to just glow.

“Um, yeah…I…” Before John could finish, Sherlock (and really, who thought that vaguely exotic and clearly fake names made this experience any more high end?) had turned smartly and left the room.

Ten minutes later and John found himself oily, limp and happy. He even found himself beginning to nod off to sleep every so often, until Sherlock would unknowingly hit a particularly tense muscle or damaged nerve group, and John would have to tell him to scale off the pressure. It happened frequently and John couldn’t tell if this Sherlock was rather inexperienced in this particular field, or if he was just prodding John to see what kind of reaction he could get. It was after another ten minutes without any painful pressures that he was asked the pertinent question.

“Afghanistan. How did you…?”

“Oh, there are all sorts of things that the human body reveals about a person.”

“Well, I guess you see more than your fair share of those, I suppose. Human bodies, I mean.”

“One could certainly say that,” the voice above and to his left responded, overly amused. John wasn’t really sure if he was supposed to talk with his masseur or not; it seemed to take away from the whole “relaxation” goal. But still and all, must be boring to be a masseur, with nobody to talk to for hours at a time. Sherlock seemed to agree, for he continued right on talking.

“Your tan doesn’t cover your whole body, only your hands and face, suggesting long sleeves and trousers in an extremely hot environment. Not many people willingly choose to cover themselves up to the point of discomfort, barring some sort of physical deformity. Of which you have none, barring this,” and a finger ghosted across the exit scar pocking his scapula and John couldn’t help but shudder. “Clearly, you wore a uniform. Your haircut implies military, which makes sense, considering that there are few places in London where a man is likely to get a bullet wound from a rifle. Take all this into account, and it’s only a matter of narrowing down which of the areas England currently has military intervention continuing.”

“That’s…ugh,” John found himself cut off as a particularly tender spot was brutalized, and then soothed. “That’s amazing.” The hands stopped their work, briefly, as if surprised.

“You really think so?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock sounded so genuinely touched that John felt a little relieved only to be able to stare at the tiled floor, his head vised between the ridiculous face rest's sides; Sherlock seemed like a proud man, and John didn’t think he could handle seeing him “touched”.

“Since you think so, I’ll let you in on a secret.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m not really a masseur.” John felt his whole body freeze stiffly. Sherlock no doubt felt John’s rigor through his ludicrously dexterous fingers.

“Oh?” John hoped his suspicion wasn’t too visible, as he was already mentally calculating egress and taking into account his nudity.

“I work with the police. As a consulting detective. I’m here on a case. This salon was where Vincent Brown was last seen alive. You’ve heard of his death?”

“I….no?”

“I suspect foul play. Particularly from a specific masseuse here. I suspect she’s somehow introduced botulinum toxin into her massage oil, causing….”

“Massive muscle failure and respiratory arrest. Yes, I’m a doctor.”

“Very good, John!” Sherlock sounded pleased, and rewarded John with a particularly judicious thumb in the sacral area, causing John to moan quite embarrassingly. “It’s something I’ve seen before, though not in a long time.”

“So, she introduces the toxin through the massage oil and then later, after he’s left his appointment, it goes into full effect?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock trilled exultantly, punctuating the praise with a loud squeeze of the oil bottle. It gave a little fart of emptiness, and John couldn’t help but giggle, a fact he didn’t realize had tremendous effect on his…not-masseur.

“Fantastic! So, what now then?” The thought that _he_ could just as easily have ended up with the killer masseuse did not phase him nearly enough as it should have.

“Well, I shall have to find a way to get a sample from one of her oil bottles. Clearly, she only uses the specialized mixture on specific occasions, and it’s been terrible finding the right one without her noticing. But, I think I’ve narrowed it down. Which means I’m going to have to cut this appointment a bit short, since it overlaps with her lunch break.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

“Hm?”

“You’re a frankly bloody awful masseur, mate.” There was no response above him, and John feared he’d offended his new…friend. All of a sudden, he could feel that telltale invasion of his personal space, a figure lowered over his vulnerable back making him anxious and uncomfortable. He physically started as hot breath ghosted over his ear, and Sherlock’s rumbling tone caused an almost physical sensation in his groin.

“I fully intend to make it up to you in a secondary session. And to prove you quite thoroughly…wrong.” Sherlock paused before rolling that last word out. It made John shiver. The pressure at his side disappeared, and John snapped his head up in time to see Sherlock open the door to the room, head tossed back and smug grin carving half his face.

“The address is 221B Baker Street. Try to come after seven; the police are so aggravatingly slow with their paperwork.” With a wink, he was out the door, and John was left naked and hard, the sound of waves and seagulls calling tinnily in the background.

2)

"Raised in Hampshire, at a guess, but with some time spent in London. Not young, but not old. Calm, stoic, despite the strenuous circumstances, so he’s a man used to emergencies. Law enforcement, perhaps. Although, if he were, I think he would have found a way to give us more information. No, military at a guess, or perhaps medical personnel. Or both?"

"What do you think he has to do with any of this?" Lestrade asked. His voice was resigned and dogged. The activities of the last few days were apparently taking their toll on the Detective Inspector. It was an appalling lack of endurance, even if their enforced cycle of stagnation and frenzy would logically take a severe toll on any man. DI Lestrade sounded utterly weary and anticipatory, though Sherlock did not look to confirm.

"Do?" Sherlock asked, eyes reluctantly pulled away from the eyepiece of his microscope to finally look at the other man. He had been hovering over Sherlock the entire time since he had taken temporary residence in St. Bart’s lab.

"Yeah. I mean, why him?"

"There is no 'why,'" Sherlock retorted impatiently, turning his eyes back (his head had never even lifted away). "The man's just a hostage. No lead there."

3)

John hadn't expected, when he had begun rooting around in the skip behind Chicken Cottage, to find a nearly dead body tonight. Dinner, yes. Body, no. John was more startled than he really should have been; six months of living on the streets and under Vauxhall Arches had taught him quick enough--people die, in the streets. Their bodies are found after a particularly cold night, or near the Thames after one drug dose or dangerous encounter too many. Or rushed into A&E, only to die quickly and be disposed of subtly and solitary.

John knew it would be him someday; knew it with a certainty he'd never had in Afghanistan. Back then, he'd been too afraid to think on how’s and when’s beyond the superficial, out of fear that he was tempting fate; that just by imagining it, he would manage to bring it about. It was the superstition that every soldier had, no matter how logical they otherwise were. But now, all he could do was think on it as he loitered outside of off-licenses and near bridges, fighting off the other nameless, faceless people for a spot to beg for some change.

Life had been hard when he got back from Afghanistan, shot and lame. Then, he'd started drinking. And it only got harder.

If he hadn't been sober already that evening, he certainly would be, now that pushing aside several iridescent bin bags had revealed the impossibly thin silhouette of a body. At first, he assumed that it was some other transient, slipped inside to escape the cold London night. But a flash of red thread in a coat buttonhole made John take a closer look and he realized that the coat was far too expensive to belong on anybody found in a rubbish pile. Reaching forward and using all of his strength, John managed to turn the body over and nearly yelped in surprise.

He knew this man. Sherwood something. No, Sherlock. The tall, gangly git who would sometimes show up in places such a well-dressed man had no right to be. Offering money and a smug smirk, he would ask for favors from "his network."

"You," he'd said to John once, singling him out as the taller man peered into various faces huddled around a fire. "You've served in Afghanistan or Iraq, where you were injured. But rather than move in with a family member, you've chosen to start drinking. However, you hate yourself for it, particularly now that you’ve ended up on the streets after your landlady evicted you four months ago."

"How did you-"

"I'll tell you, if you find out where a Lt. Sholto has been bedding at night. He was once a machine gunner in the 52nd Infantry Brigade. He has also taken to the streets, I understand. Find him and contact me at 327 Montague street, and I'll tell you how I know." At John's truculent expression, the man (Sherlock, he had told John to ask for, once he had the information) had smirked and reached inside his trouser pocket. Pulling out his billfold, he pulled out a 50 pound note (and how John's eyes had widened at seeing that) and thrust it at John in an overly benevolent manner. It was a warm day, and Sherlock had rolled up his shirtsleeves. It didn't take a medical man (though John was one, and a damn good one) to see the track marks snaking his inner elbow. It was John's turn to smirk as Sherlock caught him staring and immediately rolled down his sleeve.

John never found Lt. Sholto, and he ended up spending nearly all of the 50 quid on booze. And he forgot about Sherlock Holmes entirely, until two months later.

"Oh my God," John breathed out, casting his eyes up and down the alleyway for somebody, anybody. "Oh my God," he repeated, checking the man, now even paler, for a pulse. It took a moment for John to find it, slow and thready, and even longer to determine if the man was still breathing. John checked his eyes and his skin and it was immediately apparent that Sherlock Holmes, for all his smug superiority, had overdosed as badly as any crack-den junkie. He'd no doubt been dumped in the skip and left to die in order to avoid attention from law enforcement. Or, had been thought to be dead. Or...hell, it didn't matter. John fumbled about in the man's pockets, earning a bleary groan, for which John was thankful. He was still somewhat aware, at least.

Luckily, whoever had dumped him had not bothered to steal his phone, and John quickly dialed 999. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive, John could only wish (not for the first time) that he were back in Afghanistan. He wished that he had tools and equipment and saline and all of the other things that could make him actually of _use_ right now. As it was, all he could do was wait.

Later, after accompanying the ambulance to A&E and loitering about in the waiting room, he was approached by another tall, pale man. He was immaculately dressed, given the early morning hour.

"Dr. John Watson?" he asked, though for all it was phrased as a question, it was apparent the man was already confident in John's concurrence. Which was disturbing to John for no shortage of reasons, primary of which being the fact that he had never given any of the responding nurses or doctors his name at all.

"Yes, that's...that's me." It was ironic; the entire time John had been back in London, he had railed against being seen as faceless and simply part of the scenery. Now, being called by his name like an individual person, filled him with anxiety.

"I must take this opportunity to thank you for saving my brother's life."

"You're Sherlock's brother?" Really, it shouldn't have been so surprising, nor should it have mattered. Most people had family, no matter how singular they passed themselves off as. Sherlock’s brother, whose hand had been inching tantalizingly toward his pocket and, presumably, his billfold, froze.

"You knew my brother? Before tonight?"

"Yeah. I mean, not well or anything. He used to come by...well, he used to ask for favors every now and then. I've not really seen him for weeks."

"Yet, you stayed here in the waiting room to monitor his condition? That's very loyal of you."

"No, no. Just...I used to be a doctor, is all."

"Interesting. Well then, as a doctor, what would you say my brother's chances of overcoming his addiction to be on his own?” John was hesitant to speak his mind; this man was imposing in a way no military commander John had ever served under had been. But, John couldn’t hold back his honesty. Besides, John had done far too good a job himself at ruining his life; what could this man possibly do to make it worse?

“Minimal,” John declared unflinchingly. Rather than be offended at the implied offense to his brother, he seemed appreciative of John’s honesty.

“I agree.” He waited a moment, as though he were thinking very thoroughly over something. Expecting a dismissal, John started when the other man spoke again.

“In light of that, I have a proposition for you.” John hesitated as his intense stare bored into John’s own recently perfected downcast gaze. He knew, knew with a certainty he hadn’t felt without a gun or a scalpel in his hand, that this man was dangerous. That taking anything from him came with strings and obligations and Lord only knew what else.

“Yes?”

“I have enrolled my brother in an exclusive facility for those with his affliction…”

“A detox center?”

“To be straightforward, yes. I enrolled him while the doctors were seeing to my brother. He will be leaving day after tomorrow. I can tell by your shaking hands and your inflamed face and eyes that you are no less…afflicted. Albeit by alcohol, I suspect.”

John was immediately angry, the taller man’s presumption touching at his deepest self-hatred. Angry mostly because he wasn’t wrong.

“I don’t know who you are…” John began, hand clenching against the tell-tale tremble.

“Go with him.”

“What?”

“Go with my brother into detox. Get counseling for your substance abuse. Get clean.”

“Look at me. I can’t afford anything like that.”

“All expenses will be paid by myself.”

“In exchange for?”

“Stay with my brother. Look after him. Ensure that he finishes the program as he ought. What you two decide to do after the program is finished, is up to you. But, if you want to get your life back, I suggest that you start with Sherlock Holmes.”

“What makes you think I want to play nanny to your brother? Not exactly the most sensible git in the world.” It was a bluff. John had decided to take his offer the minute it was made. Winter was coming soon, and months of eating trash, sleeping on the street, and the utter _shame_ of it all made his pride much more flexible than it would have been in another life.

“Your left hand.”

“What?”

“It hasn’t shaken since I made the offer. And, I suspect, since you saved my brother.”

John’s blood ran cold at that. “How the *hell* can you know about...”

“How nice it must feel, to be back in action, yes?” Sherlock’s brother smugly interrupted, completely ignoring John’s sudden and brief flare of anger. He nodded one last time, before turning on his heel, his umbrella swinging much more jauntily than the situation warranted.

“A car will come for my brother at precisely 8 in the morning day after tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you then, John,” he called over his shoulder, and John could feel his fate being sealed.

Later, after sneaking food from the leftover hospital trays, John popped into Sherlock’s room. He was unconscious, pale, and positively cadaverous. But his heart monitor was steady, and his breath consistent.

“Well, looks like we’re in this together, mate.”

4)

The abandoned car garage was dank and cold, water from the afternoon’s rain dripping ominously from some leak somewhere. It was all quite melodramatic, and while Sherlock understood the value in gestures and panache, he rather loathed the pantomime of it all. But, that was the price of business, of course.

He idly scrolled through the messages on his Blackberry (unlisted and blocked of course) as he hummed the overture of _Die Fledermaus_ to himself. It made Deakins nervous, which was fine. The man was an idiot and his comfort of no interest to Sherlock. Just as his patience was beginning to wear thin, the snap and pop of tires treading softly on gravel, as well as lilac bright headlights, announced the arrival of York and Sandoval. Idiots, both, but efficient, which had an appeal in its own way. He smoothly pocketed the Blackberry and strode forward to meet the car as it pulled to a stop in front of him.

The driver and passenger of the car got out and Sherlock nodded to them both once, perfunctorily. It was the only signal he would give, and he expected it to be followed through immediately. Although, really, expecting anything to be done correctly by these barely functioning primates was perhaps a bit too optimistic.

York activated the boot release, and Sandoval reached in to grab his cargo. Sherlock watched impassively, hands pressed deeply into the pockets of his Armani trousers, as Sandoval dumped the body of a man to the gravel in front of Sherlock. The man was blond, on the short side, stocky and compact. Even without having done his research, Sherlock would have known the man for a soldier. The man was still breathing, though he was bleeding steadily from a scalp wound near the temple. At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, York shrunk back.

“I know what you said, boss, but he put up a fight. Stupid blighter.” And here, York reached out his disgustingly polyester clad leg to give the man a swift kick to the back. The man--John Watson, Sherlock already knew--grunted back into consciousness. He started upwards, not realizing that, while he had been unconscious, his hands and ankles had been bound securely with gaffer’s tape. A dark strip of it was over his mouth as well, a sliding drip of blood from his scalp already staining one corner of it.

Which was all for the best. Sherlock had grown quite tired, quite quickly of their explanations, their protests, their _screams_. As if their pain _mattered_. Nothing mattered in this hellish wasteful world, but they mattered even _less_.

Fear caused Watson to breath heavily through his nose with every exhale. Sandoval, who was sporting a slowly turning black eye, shot him a dirty look, clearly upset at having been gotten the better of, even for just one blow. Thugs prided themselves on these types of things, Sherlock supposed.

Sherlock leaned down to squat on his haunches, elbows resting on his thighs, arms dangling between his legs. Watson leaned back, clearly unsettled by this man--this stranger’s--proximity. Sherlock could see his little mind working, cogs turning and turning, trying to remember some semblance of Sherlock’s face. Trying to place it somewhere in his, no doubt, comparatively spotless life. There would be no luck there. Sherlock was already growing bored with this farce, but the game had to be played, and the fact was that he trusted nobody to do the important things but himself.

“Dr. Watson, I presume,” Sherlock waited a full minute to say, knowing that the tension of the moment would cause Watson to jump with the sudden sound of Sherlock’s voice. Which he did. Then, his eyes narrowed into a look of anger, clearly unimpressed with Sherlock’s games, for all that they were successful.

Yes, clearly military.

But that sort of defiance wasn’t part of the game. Sherlock reached suddenly forward, and smiled as Watson flinched back. Cause and effect, like puling a tendon on a dead, open frog. It was beautiful, in its own predictable way. But, instead of striking Watson, he reached into the bound man’s coat pocket. He allowed his fingers to linger and brush against areas that Watson, in his mediocre mid, no doubt took to be sexual. Finding what he wanted, he pulled out a battered, but expensive, mobile. He casually turned it over and over in his hand, analyzing it.

“I don’t think this belongs to you, does it, Captain?” Watson’s eyes startled open more, an aborted grunt of surprise passing through his gag. Either because of Sherlock’s knowledge of the true owner of the phone, or because of Sherlock’s knowledge of his rank. As if either of these were difficult things to surmise. Really, the world _deserved_ what Sherlock wrought upon it.

“‘To Harry Watson from Clara’ Definitely not yours. A man such as you would no doubt keep such an expensive toy in better shape. But, that’s the way with addicts, isn’t it?”

Watson’s eyes narrowed angrily. Struck a nerve. Delightful.

“You were very unfortunate in your relations, Dr. Watson. You’ve heard of a man named Moriarty, I assume?” Sherlock wasn’t really interested in John’s response, if the man could even make one.

“No? Well, that’s hardly surprising. He’s been on my radar for quite some time. But I doubt you would have noticed him at all. But your sister knows him quite well. Has been slipping him bank account numbers from her posh firm on the sly.” Watson only widened his eyes, confused and wary. No lead there, unfortunately. Expected, but disappointing.

“One of those bank account numbers was mine. Naturally, you can understand my upset when I discovered that my funds were being siphoned. Moriarty and I are competitors, you see. And your sister has been found to be a direct employee of his. Most likely because of a little hit and run he covered up for her.” Watson’s eyes opened in shock; clearly he had not suspected such an act from his own sister. It was a naivete that was surprisingly endearing. Sherlock could relate; siblings could be _so_ tiresome.

“Which has little to do with you. But, I find people are always more willing to cooperate when a direct family member is brought into the equation. I trust even you can understand that.”

He nodded to Sandoval, who had clearly been waiting for the opportunity to get some of his own back, petty little creature that he was. Sandoval brought down a boot to Watson’s unprotected side, causing the man to howl in pain as ribs no doubt cracked.

Sherlock used the camera feature on the expensive mobile to snap a picture of Watson, the flash in the dark causing Watson’s pained expression to flinch away from the light. He leaned back onto his heels and stood up gracefully. Turning, he immediately began tapping a text message at a furious pace to the number oh-so-conveniently labeled “Harry” in the contacts list.

“Be sure to leave the body where she can find it. Make it recognizable enough so that she knows.”

Attaching the picture to the message and grandiosely pressing ‘send’, Sherlock walked away, ignoring the sounds behind him. Sherlock had hoped a little showmanship, a little explanation ahead of time, would inspire...something, either in his employees, or in himself, he couldn’t be sure.

It didn’t matter; whatever it was that he had wanted, he had not achieved. The failure was galling, but at least it was something new.

5)

It was well past closing hours when Sherlock’s office phone lit up and rang out shrilly. It was an inter-office extension, and Sherlock didn’t even need to look at the screen to know to whom it belonged.

“What?” Sherlock snapped after randomly reaching out and pressing the speaker button.

“Sherlock, please. A little decorum and office etiquette isn’t much to ask.”

It really wasn’t, when one took into account how things presently stood.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock announced in the accepted professional phone greeting tone of voice expected of him.

“Thank you,” Mycroft acknowledged condescendingly. “As you are a reasonably intelligent individual (and here, Sherlock scowled mightily, but only because his brother couldn’t see it), I’m certain you are well-versed in the reading of a clock.”

Sherlock looked up at the digital clock in the lower right hand of his computer desktop screen. It was seven-thirty. For some reason, that time seemed significant. As if sensing Sherlock’s own confusion, Mycroft sighed.

“The Ministry of Defense Gala, Sherlock. It starts at eight.” Shit, he had forgotten. “I’m assuming it slipped your mind?” At Sherlock’s silence, Mycroft continued. “Thankfully, I thought to bring your good suit with me today. I’ve left it in your cupboard. The car will be ready for us in fifteen minutes. Change quickly, please.” The line was disconnected immediately after and Sherlock desperately, _desperately_ wanted to stick his tongue out at the grey, dull, ugly phone.

Sherlock half entertained the idea of not going at all. Of calling Mycroft back and feigning some illness. Of telling Mycroft to piss off. But he wouldn’t, and he didn’t, and so it was only ten minutes later that the two of them, pristinely dressed and every inch the models of supreme government service, stepped into the hired car.

They sat beside each other in silence the entire ride to the gala’s posh hotel venue. Sherlock was only peripherally aware what was being honored. An MOD veteran’s fundraiser, if he could be bothered to remember. They swept up the stairs to the entrance, the entire place finely decorated and lit. Everybody seemed to greet Mycroft as he went by, and yet Sherlock would bet money that nobody knew exactly what he did.

An hour later, Sherlock was deathly bored.

Leaning limply against one of the decorative pillars surrounding the dance floor, Sherlock reached out and adroitly closed his fingers around one of the champagne flutes being passed about so freely. He was not one prone to drinking, nor to any other methods of mind and mood alteration after what had happened the last time, but this night was looking as thought some sort of induced numbness was going to be in order.

Although, the alcohol might prove superfluous as the company was as mind-numbingly dull as it was. Politicians and personnel along with military leaders and even some lower-ranked soldiers, no doubt brought in to induce pity and to give the cause a “real face”; all smattered about in their best clothes, talking and yammering _nonsense_ , until Sherlock was almost dizzy and distant from their tinny noise. He found himself longing to be elsewhere. Looking about the room, he realized that Mycroft, currently being chatted up by some auditor or other, was shooting a warning glance Sherlock’s way. The champagne flute was halfway to his face, before he stopped.

Sherlock desperately wanted to drink. Not out of any great desire for the beverage itself, but in order to prove to Mycroft that he wasn’t _like_ that anymore. That he could be left alone for ten minutes without succumbing to the urge to engage himself in some vague acts of self-harm. It wouldn’t be an act of rebellion, if it reflected something true.

But, it was a lie; Sherlock had indulged one time too many in what could politely be called “dangerous” behavior. After his first and last overdose of cocaine, he had thought to channel his fugues of boredom and supreme isolation (not loneliness, _never_ loneliness) into police work, lest he end up dead in an alley somewhere. He had almost ended up so anyway, when, on his first real case--the one he _needed_ to solve if he was going to prove to that DI Lestrade that he wasn’t some raving lunatic--he had been stabbed quite brutally in the side. He had felt the blood leaking out of him and the pain and the dizziness as he lay dying, and had thought to himself that he simply couldn’t do this again.

Waking up in the hospital, just off the exultant despair of his second near-death in as many months, he had found himself quite tired, and no little bit despondent. DI Lestrade had dropped by momentarily to wish Sherlock health and to inform him that the Met could never sanction a consultant after how all of this turned out, sorry. Shame at his failure, at his thoroughly botched chance, burned through him as he recuperated in hospital, his brother a constant, fussy fixture at his side. Embarrassment and pain made Sherlock pathetically grateful for it. A steady job had seemed, at the time, a calculated move to buy him time to recoup his losses and strategize how best to continue. A steady job had been precisely what his brother offered and, like how everything else his brother arranged turned out, he found himself in a place he hadn’t meant to be, doing things that benefited Mycroft’s plans, and without any idea of how to escape from it. And so, he was here, now. The thought made him dizzy and thirsty.

Sherlock went to the bar to ask for some water. He had just begun to drink it when a sharp jab hit him in the calf.

“Sorry, sorry. God, I’m sorry.” Sherlock turned toward the voice, and found himself having to look down (as he frequently did with people.) The man speaking was on the short to average side, blond and tanned and so, so tired looking. His uniform and the metal cane that had wrested from his control to hit Sherlock in the calf spoke of the man’s situation better than any spoken introduction could.

“Not a problem,” he said, turning back to the bar.

“No, I…let me buy you another. Damn my leg. This bloody thing…” The man, Captain Watson, his pins and nametag pronounced him, shuffled forward a bit in a slightly self-pitying manner to which Sherlock could rather relate. The Captain was actually standing perfectly well, evenly balanced over both legs while reaching for a napkin at the bar, his cane hooked uselessly over his arm. Either a fraud (and a bad one at that), or the limp was psychosomatic.

Interesting.

“It’s alright.” Sherlock watched intently out of the corner of his eye as Captain Watson maneuvered himself next to Sherlock at the crowded bar. His shoulders were in a slump, almost permanently weighted down. He moved slowly and methodically, as if the world had put him into grooves he couldn't deviate from. Injury and illness had trapped him into being a pitiable face without any individual sovereignty over the course of his life.

Sherlock was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to talk with this man, to uncover the secret behind his psychosomatic troubles, his history. He wanted to know where it would go. Back to his place, perhaps. Even further?

God, it would be so nice to have somebody to sit _down_ with.

Sherlock interrupted Captain Watson’s (and he was handsome, in an endearing, non-threatening way) fumbling with Sherlock’s replacement drink.

“Would you care for a drink yourself?”

“Oh, God. Yes.”

1)

“You’re looking for a man with military service, nerves of steel...” Sherlock trailed off. Across the road, John Watson stood demurely, eyes meeting Sherlock’s for a moment. His eyes were knowing, self-confident, and willful. So very opposite of the man Sherlock had met just yesterday. That man had been practically imploding on himself, misery and embarrassment and loss weighting him down in that way life could inflict on some people. He had been convenient, his medical experience being of use to Sherlock. Then, he had been...flattering. Sherlock would not deny that John’s spontaneous outbursts of admiration had stroked his ego. But now, now that he had killed a man in cold blood, all to save Sherlock’s life with a skill and determination that Sherlock would not have even guessed him capable of a day ago, he was so much _more._

 _A pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Watson._


End file.
